


Hollywood, Through Your Eyes

by Dutch



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 1950s, Banter, Censorship, Historical AU, M/M, Power dynamics in the sense that Dirk is Dave’s boss, Unrelated AU, discussions of communism, discussions of period typical homophobia, though no one experiences it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dutch/pseuds/Dutch
Summary: The year is 1954 and Dirk Lalonde manages a film lot in Hollywood. Dave Strider is the biggest thorn in his side, and he just can’t understand him. The guy might be a famous director, but he’s weird and has no respect for Dirk authority.They come to an understanding over eggs.Dirk/Alpha Dave meet annoying. Like a meet cute, only they annoy each other. Don’t worry though they still get a second date
Relationships: Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider/Dirk Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: Stridercest Secret Santa





	Hollywood, Through Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/gifts).



> I’ll be honest the flirting is a little hard to see in this one because of the time period.
> 
> Happy Holiday Kimi!

Dirk’s alarm went off at six am sharp. He got up, brushed his teeth, put on his work attire, and drove to work. It was only a ten minute drive, he lived in the Hollywood suburbs, and the gates of the studio he called home was practically around the corner. The studio was more a home than his own house, he spent more time here after all. He came and went at all hours of the night, so much so the guards let him by with only a wave of his hand.

His name was on a placard on his own parking spot, and his office was a mammoth of a room with a desk, yes, but also a wall of windows and a couch that wasn’t very comfortable, but was still great for napping on after long days. Most importantly, the room contained a phone. Whether the phone was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

He was barely seated at his desk when it rang for the first time that day.

“Hello?” He answered, the cord of the phone tethering him to the right side of his desk.

“Mr. Strider?” His secretary’s voice came over the line, crackly and muted.

“Yes, Jane, what is it?” He asked, and he probably sounded a bit curt. He hadn’t had his coffee yet.

“Well, shucks, uh, well. I hate to tell you this sir, but there’s a minor issue on set four. It’s um, well the director,” Jane huffed. “It’s you-know-who.”

“Oh course it is,” Dirk sighed. He knew exactly who it was, too. “I’ll go have a look see.”

He rose from his desk and his hard soled shoes clicked on the office’s hard stone floors, on his way outside to fix it. Because that’s what he did. Fixed things. And he was goddamn good at it.

The studio was vast, so Dirk drove his car. The outside of the building wasn’t on fire, so that was at least promising, but Dirk regretted even opening the door. The inside not so much. The set was not on fire but it was nearly under water. Hoses ran from all directions, soaking everything. The floor was soaked too, all the way down to the concrete. Dirk stepped in a puddle as soon as he set foot in the building and as he walked towed the set, it seeped into his expensive leather shoes.

The crew was looking uneasy, also wet and struggling to keep their equipment dry.

A large set of steps had been constructed by the prop crew, meant to look like an apartment fire escape, and the camera was rolling though the director was absolutely howling with laughter. There were three actors laying in a heap at the bottom on the set floor, clearly haven fallen.

“I told you about the stairs,” Dirk heard one of them mumble.

“No! No! Keep that take!” The director shouted between bursts of laughter. “And keep the line at the end!”

“Strider!” Dirk barked. “What’s the meaning of this!”

“Oh! Oh, shit!” Dave Strider twisted around, a smile on his face as if this was a game. “Hey! Dirk! I’m shooting a rain scene!”

Dirk was well acquainted with Dave. Every time Dave made a movie, Dirk was involved some way or another. Run in after run in with the fair haired devil. He was handsome, Dirk had to admit, but never out loud. That sort of thing just wasn’t done. Still, it was impossible not to notice his unblemished skin, his high cheekbones, the youthful look he carried though he was past thirty.

“This is a piss poor excuse for a rain scene. That doesn’t even look like real rain, you can see the hoses in the shot! And we have buildings meant to get wet! Who do you think is gonna have to clean all this up?” Dirk scowled, and he could feel the water climbing up his pant legs the longer he stood in it.

“That’s the point!” Dave replied, a few giggles escaping him as he fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Dirk realized he was completely dry. “You want a cigarette?”

“No,” Dirk said through grit teeth. “What do you mean by ‘that’s the point’? You mean you meant to ruin an entire set that cost the studio money to make and can’t be reused?”

“I mean what I said,” Dave replied, pinning a cigarette between his lips and he kept talking as he pulled a zippo lighter from his suit jacket pocket to light it. He took a drag, and then kept talking. “That’s the point of the whole movie. It’s satire, not popular, yet, I’m gonna make it popular. There’s not a movie that exists like this movie I’m gonna make. Audience is gonna see it and see the hoses and see this ruined set and /get/ what I’m trying to do. Everybody knows movie rain ain’t real rain, and sets ain’t real houses, and so on and so forth, so let’s point it out you know?”

There were many reasons Dirk disliked Dave Strider, the number one reason had to be all the rambling soliloquies he gave. The man said nothing in twice as many words.

“Dave, what year is it?” Dirk interrupted.

“So you know- uh, what? It’s ‘fifty four,” Dave replied.

“Uh-huh. What exactly makes you think that good people with good values like our modern day wanna see a movie like that?” Dirk countered.

Dave puffed his cigarette again, and when he pulled away, he was still smiling. “Hell if I know.”

“You know, we _do_ have rules here. Hayes Code, ever heard of it?” Dirk countered, exasperated.

“Sure, don’t swear, no sex, no guns, no interracial relationships. You know, censorship of anything interesting or like, progressive,” Dave replied, and he huffed, smoke blowing out his mouth.

“The Hayes Code is the only thing standing between our motion picture studio and corruption. People do not come to see movies to have their political ideology validated!” Dirk argued.

Dave rolled his eyes. “As if everybody doesn’t know it goes on off screen. Dirk, look, what’s say you and me go out to lunch. We can have a chat about this.”

“And give the rest of us the day off!” Called one of the men from the floor.

“Sure. We can pack it in for today,” Dave agreed, stubbing out his cigarette.

“I am not going to lunch with you, I have three meeting scheduled for this morning,” Dirk told him. “It's not even eleven.” 

“Okay, brunch then,” Dave shrugged. “Come on, you can’t seriously stand there and tell me you ate already. Maybe that’s why you're having such a bad morning? Gotta get your Wheaties, Dirk. I’ll pay.”

Dirk had not eaten that morning, as a matter of fact. And thanks to Dave, no coffee either. If he was footing the bill, okay. Dirk conceded that this was also an excellent way to corner him to have a come to jesus meeting. 

“Alright. I’ll bite. Let me make a phone call,” Dirk relented after a long pause. He used the studio phone on the set to call Jane and have his meetings canceled. They left the studio lot in his car after Dirk refused to allow Dave to drive, though he did let Dave choose the restaurant. 

He pulled in to a little dinner type spot with their neon on in the middle of the day advertising a breakfast special. It was fairly quiet inside, and a red haired waitress asked them “smoking or non?” when they walked in.

“Smoke section, please,” Dave asked, and she led them off to the left. The jukebox was off this early in the morning, and Dirk was thankful for that as the waitress led them past it. She seated them in a corner, and passed out menus.

“What would you like to drink?” She asked, pulling her booklet out of her apron and a small golf pencil with it.

“Coffee. Black,” Dirk told her and she nodded, and then looked to Dave.

He was busy looking at the back on the menu, at the drink section. No, Dirk looked closer, that was the kids menu. “Can I have an apple juice?” Dirk wanted to hide his head. A grown ass man asking for apple juice? The waitress didn’t seem phased, though, and left.

Dirk had no idea what to say to him. By the time the waitress came back, Dave had already lit another cigarette and was looking at the menu again, the real menu this time, and Dirk was no closer to figuring out his next move.

There was something strange about him, more than apple juice, more than smoking and drinking apple juice at the same time. Something about his movie. Dirk was well aware of a scandal on another film lot, of another director slipping... propaganda of a certain kind into his firm. There were so many anti-iron curtain films, there was bound to be some that were pro. And, Dirk noticed, he was wearing a red tie. Dave couldn’t be. There was no way. The guy couldn’t be that smart.

“I think I’m gonna get a western omelette,” Dave broke the silence for him.

“Are you a communist?” Dirk blurted.

“What?” Dave laughed. “No?”

“But would you actually tell me if you were?” Dirk pressed.

“No. Not with Joseph McCarthy running the senate, I wouldn't,” Dave told him. “But I’m still not a communist. Why would you think that?”

“I just don’t understand what you’re about,” Dirk shook his head. Dave didn’t look away from him as he stubbed out his cigarette, not even half gone, and pushed his glass aside. He leaned in, and when he spoke, he spoke with purpose.

“Well, last time I checked doing things I enjoyed wasn’t a communist trait, but sure okay. What’s this about? The movie? We are at the height of another red scare, I don’t want to get thrown in prison because you have a bug up your ass. I just want to make a dumb movie, with tropes that are funny and nobody’s seen them before, and poke a little fun at myself and my peers, and okay, maybe a little bit at the audience. Is that so wrong?”

Dirk didn’t reply for a moment, thinking. “No, I suppose it’s not communism per say, but I still don’t like it.”

Dave huffed, his shoulders going loose, and he wouldn't look at him. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I already got the okay from the studio. You got a complaint, I know, that’s why you came to see me. If they don’t like it when they test view it, then I’ll reshoot it. But not before then.”

“It seems we’ve reached an impasse then,” Dirk remarked.

Dave shrugged. “Only if you insist. I’m pretty sure we reached breakfast. I’m still thinking about a western omelette. What about you?”

He was dodging the topic now. How mature. “Eggs over easy.”

Dave smiled then, genuinely, and motioned for the waitress they were ready. It was rude of him, and her expression made sure he knew it. He ordered for them, which disgusted Dirk just a little bit. He was an adult and didn’t need his food ordered for him like a child. Once the waitress left, Dave picked another cigarette from his pack and lit it.

“Want one?” He offered again.

“I don’t smoke,” Dirk shook his head.

“Yeah? Okay then. What do you get up to, then?” Dave asked, pinning his smoke between his lips.

“Work, mostly. I run the studio, you know,” Dirk replied dryly.

“Who? You? Wouldn't have guessed,” Dave joked, the cigarette bobbing with his speech. “But for real, that’s it? That’s all you get up to? You don’t like, have any hobbies, or a girlfriend or anything?”

“No, just the studio. I’m not really the girlfriend...type,” Dirk was taking a calculated risk saying that. Nobody in the film industry was out. It wasn’t proper.

To answer, Dave plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and his voice returned to the low, almost whisper tone. “Oh? No shit? I mean, I sorta figured? This is a real hard industry to, uh, you know, be yourself in? Myself, that door opens both ways, but I wouldn't dare be seen anywhere with anyone but a dame, you know? I’d lose my job. Maybe you wouldn’t fire me, or you would I dunno, but I guarantee I’d never direct again.”

Dirk nodded. He knew exactly what Dave meant.

“This is what I was talking about censorship. It’s a vicious cycle. You’re alienated, people never see anyone like you in the media to teach ‘em it’s okay, somebody outs you, everybody’s horrified cause nobody modeled for them how to react, and you lose your job, and you end up feeling alienated all over again. At this rate, it’ll be twenty, thirty years before they even let a straight man play a gay man on television. It’s not good for culture.”

As Dave spoke, smoke rolled up to the ceiling. Good lord, why was Dirk so fixated on that cigarette? It wasn’t the cigarette, he realized belatedly, it was his lips. No, god, anyone but him. He could have picked literally any other person to crush on.

It was all starting to make sense, though. Dave made an excellent point. Movies shaped culture. Walt Disney released Bambi twelve years prior, and looked at what it had done for the national parks. Perhaps there was some merit to his point about censorship.

The food came, and Dave dug in like this shitty dinner food was a six course meal. Dirk tasted his, and actually, he had to agree. It was good enough he wished he’d got more than eggs.

“We could do this again, you know,” Dave said, still chewing, and this time his grin was a bit devious. “I could call in my own complaint tomorrow morning. About myself. You could cancel your meetings. Again. I know another dinner.”

“You know, I _do_ have a responsibility to respond to all complaints.”

“That’s good. ‘Cause I’ll make sure they keep coming.”


End file.
